


In Harmony

by Rochelle_Templer



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-show era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rochelle_Templer/pseuds/Rochelle_Templer
Summary: In the early days of the band, the guys decide to try some new things, but run into a snag....





	In Harmony

“Hey guys, I think we need to change up our act.”

Davy and Peter turned toward Micky, who was sitting behind his drums, his chin in his hand. Mike continued to look down the neck of his guitar while quietly strumming away at the strings. The four of them had just finished practicing their set for a gig later that night when the drummer suddenly made this declaration.

“What do you mean, Micky?” Davy asked, sitting his maracas down. “I think we sounded great in that last run-through.”

“Yeah,” Peter said with a bob of his head. “I thought we were groovy.”

“Aw, that’s not what I mean,” Micky huffed. “I’m saying that we should, you know, shake things up a bit. No matter how good we sound, if we never do anything different, we’ll get kinda stale.”

“Micky’s right,” Davy nodded. “We’re good, but we should still do some new stuff once in a while.”

“How about you, Mike?” Micky said. “What do you think?”

Mike stopped playing and raised his head while resting his hands on the neck of his guitar.

“Well…yeah. I think y’all got a point,” he drawled. “We probably shouldn’t rely too long on the same old stuff. We should try something different.”

“I could do _Cripple Creek_ ,” Peter offered. “A banjo number would be something different.”

“It definitely would,” Davy chuckled.

“Yeah,” Micky said, hopping to his feet. “But it’s not a bad idea either. We could try it out at our next gig.”

“All right, I’m game,” Davy said.

“Mike?” Micky said as he moved out from behind the drums.

“Sounds good to me,” Mike shrugged. “And we could add some more of our own songs. I’ve got a couple we could look at.”

“You wrote some more new stuff, Mike?” Davy said.

“Yeah,” Mike said, ducking his head down slightly. “I, uh, well…we could try them out anyway. See if any of them would work for the act.”

Mike got up and walked over to a desk sitting against the wall while Micky, Davy and Peter sat down in a semi-circle in front of Micky’s drum set. The Texan returned with a handful of sheet music and plopped down to sit in front of them. All of them picked up a sheet of music to look at.

“Hey, this one looks good,” Micky said, holding it up. “ _The Girl I Knew Somewhere_.”  

“Oh, yeah, that,” Mike said as he snatched the paper from the drummer’s hand. “That not…I’m still haven’t worked out all the, um, lyrics on that one.”

“Looks good to me so far,” Micky said. “How about playing it for us now? You can just sing a little of whatever you’ve got in mind for it.”

An abrupt silence stopped the conversation cold. The four of them had formed the band a few months ago after living together for a couple months before that. During that whole time, none of them had ever heard Mike sing. They had asked him if he could while deciding what everyone’s roles would be in the group and had only gotten a cryptic reply indicating that he wasn’t interested in singing, only playing lead guitar. The subject came up a couple more times after that, but every time it was, Mike managed to deflect it and steer the conversation somewhere else.

By this point, it had been a long while since the matter had come up, and still the response was just the same.

“Hey look, the song’s not ready, all right?” Mike said. “Let me work on it some more and then we can try it out in our set.”

“All right, Mike,” Micky shrugged. “If you want, we can wait on it. For now, we can go with something else.”

“But you know, Mike, maybe you should try singing one of these other songs,” Davy persisted. “The whole point is to change up our act. Having you sing too would give a new flavor to our set.”

“Davy…we already settled this,” Mike said. “I play guitar. That’s what I do. I play guitar and maybe I write a few songs. Y’all handle the singing.”     

Despite the overall relaxed tone the Texan continued to use, none of them had failed to notice the growing edge behind his words. Peter sighed and fiddled with his guitar while Davy glared at him momentarily before shrugging his shoulders in defeat.

Micky, however, was not so easily deterred. Normally, he was content to keep the peace with a joke or a bit of goofy play-acting. But something inside him told him that this was one of those times when he needed to push a little harder at Mike’s defenses rather than retreat.

“Why Mike?” Micky asked. “Why won’t you sing?”

“’Cause I don’t sing,” Mike said.

“Oh, because you don’t like singing,” Micky nodded. “Then you picked a crummy job, ya know. Being in a rock and roll band.”

“No, I like singing,” Mike started. “But I….”

“Oh, so you can sing,” Micky replied, smiling as he held out his hands. “Then why didn’t you say so before? Come on, let’s hear ya.”

“What? Wait no, hold on,” Mike said. “I didn’t say anything about me singing. I told you, I don’t sing.”

“But you just said that you like singing,” Micky said. “That means that either you don’t sing or you do and just don’t want to sing with us for some reason. So which is it?”

“Micky, that’s…it’s not…,” Mike said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to sing with y’all it’s just…. It’s just, things are better the way they are. People dig the way y’all sing. That’s why we get the gigs that we do. Why mess up a good thing?”

“What do you mean, ‘mess up’?” Micky asked him. “Is that what you think will happen if you sing? Man, you don’t know that ‘til you try. So come on.”

“Don’t you get it?” Mike shot back. “I did try. But it didn’t work, all right? I’m not what people want to hear. They want to hear you. Not me.”

Micky blinked hard, shocked into silence. The heated tone to his voice told the drummer that Mike meant every word he said. He was about to ask when Mike had tried before when he remembered the Texan mentioning that he had tried to play the local scene as a solo act before he became a part of the Monkees.

He also remembered that Mike’s living situation was even bleaker when they first met each other than anything they’ve experienced as part of the group. The Texan had not eaten for days and was close to selling almost everything he had just so he wouldn’t have to sleep on the street. It wasn’t hard to make the connection that Mike’s attempts to perform on his own had not been successful.       

  “Listen,” Mike said, his voice calmer again. “The songs go down good when y’all sing them, right? So, so I, so the way I see it, we should stick with that. With what gets us gigs. Now, now we can try some new stuff out, sure. But that don’t mean we should throw out what works.”

“Who said anything about throwing stuff out?” Micky replied. “We just want to hear you sing, Mike. That’s all.”

“Well, it ain’t happenin’, Mick,” Mike said, setting his guitar down. “End of story.”

The Texan got up and stormed out of the house toward the beach. The others sighed and shook their heads.

“Man, and I thought we were getting through to him,” Micky said with another sigh.

“Hey, you did your best,” Davy said, patting his arm. “But you know how Mike is when he’s set on something.”

“Yeah, I know,” Micky said. “But I…gosh, I just think there got to be something else we could try. I know he’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but the way he’s so dead set against it…I mean, it’s got to be bothering him more than he’s letting on.”

“Yeah,” Davy said softly. “But what can we do? If we try to confront him now, he’ll just get even more agitated than he already is.”

“You think he’s mad at us?” Peter said mournfully. “You know, for pushing him too far?” Davy put a hand on his shoulder.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, Pete,” he said. “He’s just out of sorts is all. He’ll be back to his old self in no time at all. You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” Micky said thoughtfully. “But are we really sure that’s a good thing in this situation?”

Silence loomed over them again. No one had an answer to Micky’s question.

And none of them were entirely sure if there was one to begin with.

* * *

 

 A couple days later, Micky was stirring in his bed, restless, at four in the morning. Normally, he would never get up willingly at such an hour, but for some reason, the drummer could not sleep. He groaned and rolled over to see if Mike was having any luck sleeping.

Instead he found the bed next to him empty.

Micky said up and rubbed his eyes. None of them were working any part-time jobs these days, and Mike had gone to bed the same time the rest of them did. There was no reason Micky could think of for the Texan to be missing. He let out an enormous yawn that stretched across his entire mouth before getting up and pulling on his robe.

He stumbled out into the hallway and ambled down the staircase. He was about to call out Mike’s name when the faint sound of a guitar caught his attention. He instantly recognized it as Mike’s and quietly crept toward the source of the music.

Micky soon found Mike sitting out on the balcony, his guitar in his lap. The Texan was strumming away, a sheet of music on the floor near his feet. Micky kept himself hidden and watched him play. Eventually, Mike looked up from his guitar and began to sing.

“ _You tell me that you’ve never been this way before/ You tell me things I know that I’ve heard somewhere….”_

Micky’s mouth fell open in surprise. Mike’s voice was richly tinged with his Texan accent and reminded him of some classic country and western artists he had heard as a kid. But it was far from terrible. In fact, the more he listened, the more Micky marveled at how great Mike’s singing actually was.

“ _Some way, somehow, the same thing was done/ Someone, somewhere, did me the same wrong….”_

_‘Why does he think he can’t sing?’_ Micky he thought to himself, bewildered. ‘ _No…no it’s not that. He just thinks no one wants to hear him.’_

Micky sighed inwardly. While he was clearly talented, there was no denying that Mike’s voice would definitely stand out within the local music scene of Malibu. He imagined that Mike might have had a hard time finding an appreciative audience and could have even been jeered for sounding the way he did. He hated to think that people could have told Mike that he was no good even though he knew that it was a very likely possibility.

 A soft creak in the floor startled him, and Micky had had to swiftly clamp both of his hands over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. He whirled around to see Davy and Peter standing behind him with bleary eyes and questioning faces. Micky frantically motioned for them to hide next to him so they could hear what he had been listening to.

“ _So goodbye dear, I just can’t take this chance again/ My fingers are still burning from the last time….”_

 Both Davy and Peter’s mouths dropped open in a similar fashion to what Micky’s had at first before switching over to smiles he knew mirrored his own. It was obvious that all three of them agreed that Mike had severely underrated his own abilities.

Mike finished the song with a flourish of his guitar and stared in silence at the paper nearby. That contemplation was quickly interrupted by the sound of his band mates applauding as they moved out of their hiding place to join him on the balcony. Mike yelped and leapt to his feet, his hands grabbing at his chest.

“What, what are y’all doin?” he asked, his voice slightly higher pitched than normal.

“What’s it look like, Mike?” Micky said with a grin.

“It looks like y’all are skulking around in the dark, lookin’ for someone to scare,” Mike glowered. “Well, mission successful.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Davy said with a chuckle. “We were just listening to your song.”

“You sounded great, Mike,” Peter beamed at him. “You should sing that at our next gig.”

“You must be joking,” Mike drawled.

“No, no, no, that’s my line, Mike,” Davy said, waving his hands in front of him. “I’m the one that says that. You can’t go stealing me lines.”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Mike said sheepishly. “Let’s try that again.” The Texan cleared his throat, his indignant expression returning.

“You can’t be serious, Shotgun,” he said. He then glanced over at Davy. “How was that?”

“Right, perfect,” Davy nodded.

“But Mike, you’re really good,” Micky said. “And the song’s groovy. You should put in the act.”

“I told you, Micky, I ain’t singing,” Mike insisted. “My style isn’t what people want to hear.”

“Maybe back then it wasn’t,” Micky responded. “But that doesn’t mean that’s how it is now. Scenes change, Mike. People’s tastes change. Heck, it’s not like your style is exactly the way it was when we first got together.”

“That’s right,” Davy agreed. “And besides, you were a solo act back then. Maybe all you needed was a band to back you up.”

“Come on, Mike, please?” Peter said. “It’ll be great. I know it will. We all know it.”

“Enough!” the Texan boomed, waving his hands emphatically. “I already told y’all why I don’t sing. And we, and that, um, and that the fact is, we don’t get as much work as we should. I’m not about to do something that’ll make it even harder to get gigs.”

“But Mike…” Micky started.

“Guys, honestly, it don’t matter,” Mike said. “I’m happy playing guitar and writing songs. You dig? I don’t need to sing to feel like part of the group.”

“Of course not,” Micky said. “But that’s not what this is about, Mike. It’s….”

“Mick,” Mike said, chocolate brown eyes staring straight into hazel ones. “I’m asking you: just drop it.”

Micky opened his mouth to protest again, but nothing came out. Despite the harsh tone that had been used, the Texan’s eyes were pleading. He didn’t like the idea of putting a halt to this conversation, but Micky liked the look Mike was giving him even less.

“I’m goin’ back to bed,” Mike said, lifting his guitar off his shoulders. “And if y’all want to add this song to our set, we can rehearse it later.”

Mike left the balcony without another word. The rest of them crossed their arms over their chests and shook their heads.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Davy said. “It’s not as if we can make him to sing if he doesn’t want to.”

“True, we can’t exactly make him do it,” Micky smirked, a faraway look in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t find other ways to…persuade him to give it a shot.”

“What do you mean, Micky?” Peter asked.

“I mean that it’s time to formulate a plan of attack,” Micky said, pulling himself up to his full height. Seconds later, the three of them were dressed in formal military uniforms and were staring down at a vague drawing of their own pad with a stick-figure of Mike at the center of the paper.

“The way I see it, we will have to use strategy, subterfuge and all-around sneakiness to achieve our objective,” Micky said, puffing out his chest. “Who will stand with me during this mission?”

“We will, General Dolenz, sir,” Davy and Peter said in unison. They tried to salute, but their arms collided against each other as they raised their hands.

“Then, it’s settled then,” Micky nodded, grabbing the labels of his jacket. “Operation Nesmith is a go.”

 Back in their pajamas, Micky, Davy, and Peter were hunched down on the floor, looking into their laps.

“This is all well and good, but how are we going to pull this off?” Davy asked. “It’s not like we can wait until we’re onstage to ask Mike to sing.”

“Maybe we could make it so that we all lose our voices at the same time,” Peter offered with a smile. “Then there won’t be anyone else left to sing.”

“Yeah, and then we won’t know when we’ll be able to perform our songs again,” Davy replied. “No Peter. Nice try though.”

“Wait! I’ve got it,” Micky said, slapping his hands onto his legs. “A duet. One of us could sing a song with Mike. Then maybe he won’t be so worried about the audience not digging his voice ‘cause one of us will be singing too.”

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” Davy said, stroking his chin. “That might work.”

“But which one of us is going to sing with him?” Peter wondered.

“I’ll do it,” Micky immediately answered. “Just leave it to me.”

“Are you sure about this, Micky?” Davy asked. “Mike’s good, but his voice is completely different from yours. Who knows how you’ll sound together.”

“Aw don’t worry about it,” Micky said with a wave of his hand. “I know what I sound like, and now I know what Mike sounds like too. I don’t know, I just have a feeling about this, guys.  I’m sure it’ll be great. Just trust me on this, ok?”

“Ok, Micky, we’ll trust you,” Peter said, nodding vigorously.

“But we still need a way to arrange it so he’ll sing with you,” Davy said.

“Don’t worry about that,” Micky said, his grin becoming even more mischievous. “I’ve got some ideas there too….”

* * *

 

Three days later, the group landed another gig at the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh. The club was packed and the audience was clearly into the band and their music. Thus, everyone onstage felt energized by the crowd.

Toward the end of the show, the guys were getting ready play some encores. Davy looked as if he was going to walk toward the center microphone, but then he suddenly turned and bounded back toward the drum set. He grabbed the drumsticks from Micky’s hands as Micky jumped up and rushed out toward the front of the stage. Davy then sat down and settled in to play.

Throughout all this, Mike looked surprised, but not completely shocked. It was common for them to do a little improvisation toward the end of a concert and to have Davy take over for Micky on drums so Micky could be free to roam the stage while he sang. They hadn’t discussed doing this tonight, but Mike was willing to go along with these end-of-show antics seeing as the crowd seemed to eat it all up.

“Thank you, thank you,” Micky said as he grabbed the microphone and swung it toward him. “You’ve been a great crowd and so we have a special treat for ya. Tonight, you’ll get to see the Monkees become an amazing, swinging, singing quartet. So put your hands together for our very own Mike Nesmith, and me, the incomparable Micky Dolenz, as we bring you this unforgettable hit _: Pleasant Valley Sunday_.”

   The crowd cheered and clapped in anticipation. _Pleasant Valley Sunday_ was a relatively new song in their set, but it got a great reception whenever they played it. Earlier that day, Micky had decided that this would be the perfect song for his duet with Mike, and Peter and Davy had agreed.

However, even Micky was starting to have second thoughts when he glanced over at Mike and saw a mixture of disbelief, anger and fear in the Texan’s features. He waved Mike closer to him and was relieved when Mike decided to come over.

“Micky, what are you doin’?” Mike hissed in his ear.

“Getting ready to do a song,” Micky shot back out of the corner of his mouth. “What does it look like I’m doing? Come on, we’ll sing it together. You and me.”

“I ain’t doin’ it,” Mike replied. “It’ll be stupid.”

“It’ll be even more stupid if you don’t start singing,” Micky insisted. “Especially after everything I just said.”

Mike ground his jaw and looked as if he was about to say something else, but Micky stepped to the side and pointed at Peter and then at Davy. They started to play their instruments with Mike reluctantly joining in guitar. They played a couple bars of the introduction before Micky turned back toward Mike, his face open and sincere.

“ _Trust me,”_ the drummer mouthed silently toward him. Mike still looked grim, but nodded in response.

The last opening chords were played and Micky launched into the lyrics.

“ _The local rock group down the street is trying hard to learn this song….”_

As he sang, Micky continued to flick his eyes back toward Mike’s face. Most of the anger had dissolved away from the Texan’s face and only white-knuckled anxiety remained. Micky leaned toward Mike and put his hand on the guitar player’s shoulder, a reassuring touch that would also cue him to start singing. Mike took a breath and stepped closer to the microphone.

“ _So Mrs. Gray, she’s proud today/ ‘Cause her roses are in bloom….”_

Both Peter and Davy blinked in surprise and had to work to maintain their concentration enough to play. Micky and Mike’s voices harmonized beautifully, melding and complementing each other with ease. It was as if they were meant to sing together and had been doing so forever.

“ _Another Pleasant Valley Sunday, here in Status Symbol Land/ Mothers complain about how hard life is/ And the kids just don’t understand….”_

Meanwhile, the audience was dancing and waving their hands along with the music. The guys were used to people enjoying this, but this time, there seemed to be an even greater positive vibe in their response to this version of it.

 Micky laughed and pulled the microphone free from the stand.

_“Creature comfort goals, they only numb my soul/ And make it hard for me to see….”_

Micky moved around the stage, sneaking around behind Mike and peeking over his shoulder before moving back up front again. By the time he got to the bridge in the middle, the drummer was dancing around in a sort of modified soft-shoe while his band mates filled in with a series of “ta-ta-tas” It was pure silliness and pure Micky Dolenz and the crowd seemed to love it.

More importantly, at least in Micky’s mind, Mike seemed to enjoy it too and was starting to loosen up, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. By the time the bridge was over, Micky had put the microphone back on the stand and gave Mike a huge grin as he squeezed his shoulder and started to sing with him again.

“ _Another Pleasant Valley Sunday/ Here in Status Symbol Land….”_

Mike’s voice started to rise, and Micky let his own voice soar above it. By the end of the song, both of them had smiles on their faces as they as they brought it to a finish with Mike taking the lead and Micky letting his vocals simply highlight Mike’s delivery.

Soon the singing stopped and Mike launched into his usual spirited guitar solo at the end. This time though, the Texan played with more gusto, swaying his guitar back and forth. Micky took the opportunity to snatch the hat from Mike’s head and pull it firmly onto his own head. Mike looked momentarily bemused, but continued to play with a slight smirk on his face.

Once they were done, the crowd erupted into wild applause with some of the loudest cheers they had heard in a while. All of the Monkees took some bows and started to head offstage before Micky abruptly grabbed Mike and pulled him back to the microphone.

“Mick….?” the Texan said in his ear.

“Just one more song Mike,” Micky told him. “ _You Just May Be the One_. This time, you start. Then we’ll do it together.”

Mike looked doubtful, but the audience’s cheering and Micky’s encouraging grin prompted Mike to give it a go. Micky grabbed Davy’s tambourine while Peter started them out with a lively bass line. The Texan visibly gulped, but still inched closer to the microphone as Micky moved to stand next to him.

“ _All men must…have someone/ Have someone who’ll never take advantage/ Of a love bright as the sun.”_

Mike’s voice rang out, strong and with growing confidence, as he sang the lyrics over his guitar playing. Soon Micky joined in and by now there was joy, an honest, profound joy, in the Texan’s eyes as they sang together.

“ _I saw when you walked by/ The love-light in your eyes/ I knew I must try….”_   

Davy and Peter were grinning too as they watched Micky continue to goof around even as he sang with Mike appearing to relish the energetic drummer’s playfulness.

At the end of the song, Mike finished his playing with another flourish while Micky jumped up in the air, grabbing Mike’s shoulders on the way down to steady himself. Mike stumbled a little, but didn’t seem even remotely perturbed by the gesture.

“Thank you, everyone, thank you,” Micky shouted to the boisterously cheering audience. They bowed a couple more times before walking offstage.

 Once they were there, Peter and Davy rushed over and were patting Mike’s shoulders.

“Hey Mike, that was really, really great,” Peter said, his face lit up with his infectious smile.

“Yeah, and just listen to that crowd, Mike,” Davy said. “They loved it. They loved you.”

“Well,” Mike said, ducking his head as his cheeks became a little redder. “Davy, I, I….”

“And Micky, that was amazing man,” Davy continued.  “How you harmonized with Mike like that.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” Micky said, with a huff and rise of his chin. “I mean, what else can be said about my *ahem* extraordinary talent.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said. “What else can be said about your talent for making chicken casserole?”

Micky stuck his tongue out at Peter before giving him a light slap to the back of the head. All of them laughed for a minute as they continued to take in the cheers of the crowd in the club. Eventually, the applause calmed down as someone started up a jukebox and everyone started to dance again.

“Hey, I’m going to go get a drink before we have to pack up,” Davy said.

“Me too,” Peter said. “Mike? Micky?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Micky said. “You two go ahead and go.”

“Yeah, and while you do that, I’ll get our pay from the manager,” Mike drawled.

“Ok, see you later,” Davy said as he walked away with Peter in tow. Micky stretched his arms over his head and then clapped his hands together.

“I guess I can start grabbing our stuff while you get our money,” the drummer said.

Micky was about to head out to get their gear when Mike grabbed his arm to stop him. Micky stared at him quizzically while Mike pulled him to stand in front of him before finally letting go and taking a deep breath.

“Um Mick, I, uh,” he stuttered. “I wanted to, to, well what I wanted to say was, was that….” Micky grinned again and patted Mike’s arm.

“You’re welcome, Mike,” he said sincerely.

Mike smiled and nodded several times. Both of them were silent while they shared a quiet moment of camaraderie, their expressions telling each other all they needed to know.

That quiet was soon broken by Micky bouncing on the balls of his feet and leaning toward Mike again.

“Hey and this isn’t going to be a one-time thing, ya know,” he said. “I’ve got loads of ideas for future gigs.”

“Mick….”

“I mean, with you singing now, there’s all kinds of cool stuff we could do,” the drummer continued. “There’s some bits I’ve seen at some recent shows that I think we could change up for our own set.”

“Micky….”

“I was thinking of trying out some James Brown stuff during our next gig,” Micky mused. “You know, some white-boy soul stuff. I think it could be really groovy. And hey, you could help me out with it. We could do this bit where we….”

“Micky!”

“Huh?!” Micky said as he finally took notice of Mike’s attempts to get his attention. Mike chuckled and guided him toward the manager’s office.

“One thing at a time, man,” he said. “I haven’t exactly agreed to doin’ all this singing you’ve probably got in mind.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, babe,” Micky said. “You saw how it was tonight. It’s only going to get better from here. I’m sure of it. And we’ll come up with something good. You and me.”

“Yeah,” Mike said with another smile. “You and me.”

Micky beamed at him as he followed Mike to get their pay. The drummer was already making plans to suggest late dinner at one of their favorite Chinese restaurants. Not that where they went after this mattered all that much.

As far as Micky Dolenz was concerned, they were already were exactly where he hoped they would be.

 

 


End file.
